How to Tame a Beast
by M. George
Summary: Charming loves Snow, Thomas loves Cinderella, Philip loves Aurora; Belle is a princess, too, isn't she? So why isn't her "prince" acting like all the others? She decides to test her theory and starts experimenting in ways to win Rumplestiltskin over once and for all and claim their happy ending.


**Author's Note: **Story takes place after beginning of season two, but pays little attention to the up and coming events. It's mostly fluff, and if I use characters not actually in Storybrook at the moment, please take it with an air of forgiveness.

. . . . . . . .

Chapter One

. . . . . . . .

**First entry:**

I found this journal among Rumplestiltskin's things. Yes—I still go to the pawn shop occasionally, but never without an excuse—usually some errand for someone else because they're afraid of Mr. Gold. And people really do ask me to pick up their asked-for items, but other times I just want to see him. When I asked if I could have this journal, he didn't seem to even recognize it—but then he was rather suspicious of his owning a journal with no other purpose except as a writing venue. I myself was doubtful he'd allowed such a harmless object to grace his generally destructive collection, so I let him check for hexes, curses and spells.

Somewhat mystified, he handed it back and declared it nothing more than bound pages and leather.

"What do you want it for?" he asked.

"You know, just to write some thoughts . . . maybe poetry?" I invented.

Poetry, as I suspected, held little appeal for him. With a small smile, he said, "Then it's yours."

But I won't be writing down girlish thoughts or sappy poetry. This journal is going to be more scientific in nature, providing record of experiments of a very serious nature.

The thing is, I've noticed I can't go anywhere in Storybrook without bumping into true love. It runs this place like a battery. Not that I have anything against true love. I _am_ in love, after all.

With Rumplestiltskin.

Unfortunately.

I mean—not _unfortunately. _I don't want to be in love with anyone else, it's just that it's . . . difficult, sometimes. I'm not entirely sure he's all that in love with me. He says so, but I've seen other men—princes, if you will—who love a girl as their life, their world and their drive. The kind of love breaking curses, slaying monsters and changing destiny.

That hasn't happened much for us.

Oh, I'm important to Rumplestiltskin. I know. And I suppose he'd look at me before another girl, but I'm not motivating him to do anything. I'm just a nice fixture in his life.

His list of priorities goes something like this:

Power

Annoying Regina

Getting more power

Finding his son

Making sure no one else gets any of the power he has

Me

And I've come to the conclusion it's not completely his fault. Who am I kidding? I'm not exactly inspiring manly heroics from anyone—not like Charming and Snow. Of my two lives, both have been sheltered and reclusive. I don't know a thing about being the object of someone's true love. I'm pretty—but not that pretty. Smart—but not that smart. I'm not that good at anything, though I am rather fantastic at being mediocre at everything.

This book will be about figuring out how to get myself from number six, to number one. Or at least a nice tie for number one with his son. If I expect Rumplestiltskin to treat me like a princess, and for our love to break any curses, I've got to become a proper princess—right up there with Aurora, Cinderella, Snow and the whole lot.

**1:15 PM:**

Red has agreed to take me shopping.

People were wary of me at the diner, like usual. No one wants to get familiar with the girl who used to live with Mr. Gold.

As I watched Red taking orders, I suddenly knew who my first target would be. Er—not target. I'm not a hunter seeking prey. My first . . . helper, rather. With a flick of her hair or the slightest brush of her tongue over her lips, she commanded any Y-chromosomed body.

After some of the patrons had cleared, I moved to the bar and watched Red wiping the counter. My stare didn't abate and after a moment, she glanced up, shifting uncomfortably.

"Can I get you something else?" she asked finally.

"Oh, um . . ." I'd already had a piece of pie and eaten the entire thing (yet another thing I'm not: dainty). "No," I said at last, awkwardly. "But, can I ask you something?"

She shrugged. "Ask away."

"I've been watching you in here . . . and I was wondering, could you teach me to wear make-up?"

She blinked. My question clearly hadn't been what she expected.

"I'm sorry?"

"I know, it's embarrassing." I looked at my hands. "But in our old home, I never had occasion to dress up. I was always in the palace and then with Rumpl—and then in another prison. And here, well—I spent all twenty eight years in a cell. I've never learned how to make myself pretty, if you know what I mean."

"Ooh . . ." The look she gave me was downright imp-like in nature. I almost regretted asking her, but I couldn't back out since she seemed likely to pounce at any sudden movement to retreat. Her lips curled. "You asked the right girl."

**2:15 PM:**

I had to make the tiniest of stops at the pawn shop. Red waited for me outside, her brow raised in this 'what-could-possibly-interest-you-here' way, like she didn't know. She was there that day in the mines.

I didn't see him at the counter, so I cleared my throat loudly. He appeared from the back room after a moment, eyes narrowing as he saw me, but not in a malicious way—more like I confused him. Which wasn't anything new. I confused myself.

"Yes?" he asked, and I realized we'd been looking at each other in silence for almost a minute.

"Right! Um—" I pulled a slightly bent ring from my pocket. "I have this ring and you seemed the best, er—person to fix it."

He took it from my hand and I tried not to notice the way my whole arm seemed to grow rigid after his finger brushed my palm. Probably good princesses have normal romantic feelings, like tingly weightlessness and flutterings of the heart. Me—I react like a cursed wooden puppet every time he touches me. Or maybe it has something to do with the dark magic coursing through his veins? Either way, our physical compatibility is clumsy at best, destructive at worst.

"What's wrong with it?" he asked, holding it up to eye level.

"Well—it's bent. Can't you see?" I would know. I bent it myself only minutes after purchasing it with a few swings of my heaviest books.

His eyes lifted from their examination of the ring to look at me. _Ugh—_stomach plunge. A result of direct eye contact.

"That's it?" he asked. "It's barely lopsided."

Right, well . . . the books might have been heavy, but it didn't change that I had very little upper body strength. It was the best I could do.

"If it's only _barely _lopsided, it won't be that hard to fix," I replied. I adjusted my cardigan. "I'll be back for it in a few hours. Thanks so much." Then I turned and left before he had a chance to reply.

Then when I did return—as a newly transformed 'fairest-of-the-land' beauty, the ring wouldn't be our topic of conversation anyway.

**4:15 PM:**

Gods.

This dress.

I tried to tell her there was no way I was fitting into anything that narrow, but she insisted. Dismayed, I stared at it in the dressing room for several minutes before finally girding my loins, so to speak, and shimmying into it.

It was an impressive act of acrobats getting the sticky fabric over my hips—which are, let's be honest, sizably larger than Red's—but I did it. After wrestling the straps over my shoulders, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror.

The dress was a black, faux-leather number that came mid-way up my thighs and mid-way up my breasts. I preferred both ends more covered, but it wasn't just that—I was _spilling _out over the top and I felt like I couldn't breathe.

"Red . . ." I waddled out. "It's too small. Come on."

She looked me up and down. "No way. It's totally sexy. Well." She held up two fingers. "It will be, after you try on these . . ." She reached down and plucked up a pair of strappy black shoes. The heels were nearly four inches tall. I could barely walk in this skin-sucking contraption of a dress as it was. If I attempted to walk with those things as well, I would die.

Seeing my face, she said, "Do you want to be passably pretty, or smoking-freaking-hot?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of . . . the most beautiful in all the land."

"In this world, that's what smoking-freaking-hot means."

I sighed. "Okay."

She rubbed her hands together. "Now to the beauty parlor."

**7:15 PM**

My. Hair. Is. Pink.

No—that would be all right. It could be sort of pop-princess retro. But it isn't just pink. It's all shades of red and nasty, fleshy pink and it's . . . a disaster.

Even Red couldn't hide her cry of alarm when Sister Astrid first rinsed out my hair. It was a good thing she never got to be a fairy godmother, if this was the kind of makeover she did.

When Red had showed me the two red streaks in her hair, I agreed. I mean, she was the one getting men to drool all over her, not me. And they were kind of cool, I guess.

But _now. _

I began hyperventilating in front of the mirror and Red grabbed my arm. "Okay, just breathe. _No—_don't cry. Your make-up will be everywhere."

I forgot. The thick liner around my eyes, the crimson color on my lips. If it started to run I'd go from clownish to grotesque.

I saw the clock on the wall and groaned. 7:11. I needed to pick up my ring. Rumplestiltskin closed his shop at eight, and if I never came, then he'd wonder what happened to me—I knew he would—and he might come to the library to look for me.

"Quick," I said, snapping my fingers. "Hand me one of those cap thingies."

Sister Astrid meekly handed me a black hair cap, opaque enough to cover the atrocity of my hair. "There." I tucked the last few strands beneath the crinkly plastic. I could say I didn't want to expose my hair to the wind because I'd . . . curled it. Yes. That was believable, right?

I toddled to the door. "I've got to go—I need to pick up my ring from the pawn shop."

"Do you want me to go with you?" Red asked.

"No—no it's fine," I muttered. "I'll just go and . . . get it over with."

Shoot, I think something's just ripped. I'll finish this later.

**9:45 PM:**

It could have been worse, I suppose. I certainly expected it be worse.

As I was walking to the pawn shop, as fast as I could on those stupid heels, my dress ripped. Right up the backside. I muttered a few curses that, had I known any magic, might have turned Red into a toad. I twisted around, trying to get a good look, but I couldn't see anything. I could, however, feel a nice cool breeze on my lower back and extending downward.

Mortified, I pressed myself to the brick wall of the closest building, trying to figure out what to do. After a few minutes, one of the dwarfs walked by. Sleepy, was it? Or Dopey?

"Hey!"

He jumped, startled.

"Sorry," I said, "But I don't suppose you'd let me borrow your coat?"

It was one of those trench-coat things, almost down to his knees and a nice, high collar. It was perfect.

"Pardon?" he managed, completely confused.

"Please," I said. "I'll give you anything. I'm really desperate."

His eyes widened and his cheeks turned pink. My own rinsed with color as I realized how that sounded. In my too tight dress and ridiculously high heels, I looked like—well, who knows what he thought I was willing to offer.

"Sorry," I muttered, awkwardly trying to cover my chest while at the same time keeping my backside facing the wall.

"It's okay, you can have it." He shrugged out of the coat and extended it to me. I hesitated a moment then grabbed it from his hands. He smiled nervously.

"Thanks," I said with a sigh of relief, tugging it over my shoulders. He waited, and I remembered I'd offered him payment. "Look, I'm not going to . . . you know. But I promise, I'm on my way to Rumplestiltskin's right now and I can get—"

"Oh!" He squinted. "Belle? Oh, please—it's no trouble. Just tell Rumplestiltskin I did you a good turn, that's all I ask. I did . . . help you, right? Is there anything else you need?"

"No," I muttered in dejection. As soon as I said Rumplestiltskin's name, fear entered his eyes and he seemed only too happy to get away. With a dismissive wave of my hand, he hurried down the street and I continued on. I was only half a block away from the pawn shop when my left heel snapped.

I closed my eyes, too tired to even complain. Catching a glimpse of myself in a nearby darkened window, I rubbed off what makeup I could with the sleeve of Sleepy's coat. With the hair cap and oversized trenchcoat, lipstick was more than laughable.

I could only hope he'd be neck deep in his newest magical scheme, would quickly hand me my ring and I'd be on my way. When I reached the pawn shop door, I flipped up the collar of the coat, tucking my chin into my neck. Best to get it over with.

I stepped inside and he was sitting behind the counter, carefully storing some of his gold-woven thread. I waited for a moment by the door, just watching.

There's a chance I made it sound like I only sort of loved him before, but the truth is, I've got it bad. Really. It drives me crazy. Or _he _drives me crazy, I should say. I know he doesn't look like those other princes, but I think he's beautiful. Given the chance, I could've watched him all night.

But I didn't, particularly as in the next instant he looked up and saw me. I don't think he recognized me at first.

I hunchback limped up to the counter and held out my hand for the ring, keeping my head down.

He studied me in silence. I couldn't read his expression, but he reached under the counter and produced my ring. His eyes never left mine as he set it on my waiting palm. It was perfectly round, and as I held it between my fingers, I noticed the cheap, drugstore jewel had been replaced by something . . . decidedly more substantial. "Oh, you—" I clamped my mouth shut. The flirtatious conversation I imagined was going to have to wait until I didn't look like such a freak. I had the ring—now I had to get out of there.

"Belle?"

Crap. Crappy crap crap.

I swallowed. Coughed lightly. "Mm?"

"Why . . . are you dressed like that?" His hand was moving toward the cap. I reacted out of pure panic, smacking his hand away with samurai-like efficiency.

That was dumb. That was soooo dumb. Now he was looking at me with suspicion and a hint of anger instead of mild curiosity. But I couldn't let him see my hair. He would never recover from that image, even if I did somehow manage to reach fair-beauty status.

"It's nothing—" I hurried to say, but too late.

With the barest shift of his aggravatingly-magic fingers, the cap disappeared and my dyed hair spilled onto my shoulders. His eyes widened in genuine shock.

And then . . . then I couldn't hold it in any longer and tears started to spill. "I know," I managed, a sob rising in my throat. "I know—it's awful."

"Don't cry," he said, horrified.

"I'm not," I argued with a sniff. I wiped at my cheek and my fingers came back smeared with makeup. Another round of tears exploded.

"Come here." He guided me around the corner with a light hand on my elbow. It was a good thing I was already crying, because if he'd touched me like that earlier, I probably would've started.

He led me to the back room and sat me down. Before I could question him, he began running his fingers through my somewhat damp hair. Forgetting for a moment how chillingly wonderful it felt to have him touching my hair in such an oddly intimate way, I noticed the strands that fell from his fingertips to the side of my face . . . were brown. I touched one piece and brought it closer to my view.

He was changing my hair back. In too short a time, his hands dropped and he stepped away. My hair hung glossy, dry and the normal brunette color around my face. I tucked one side behind my ear, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

"Thank you."

He handed me a wet cloth, which I used to wipe the running makeup off my face. "Are you going to tell me what happened?" he asked.

"I'd rather not," I muttered.

"Your coat smells like a miner's bar."

I sniffed at the collar, then shrugged. "It isn't mine."

He frowned at that. Picking up his cane where he leaned it on a table, he placed both hands on it, and I knew he expected _some _kind of explanation for my behavior. But there was no way I would ever, _ever _admit I'd spent the afternoon trying to beautify myself and then come here and seduce him.

Anyway—Rumplestiltskin isn't the type who can be seduced, so I really don't know what I was thinking.

"I should get back," I said, standing. My broken heel almost made me trip—or _did _make me trip, rather, but Rumplestiltskin caught me. Holding me up, he glanced down and before my eyes, the heel mended. Tonight was not going at all as planned—with the hair touching and the magic and just—everything. I needed to leave before I did something stupid.

I pushed away. "Well, I'll just be—" I stopped short at the look on Rumplestiltskin's face. He was looking at me, but not at my face. All at once, I realized my trip had sent the trench coat flying open and there I was—a pale sausage squeezed into black leather. Face burning a deep red, I jerked the coat closed. Oh god—what was that expression? Surprise? Terror? Disgust? Something else I didn't even recognize?

Forget the good-bye. I brushed by him and hurried from the shop without another word.

I made it back to the library apartment sans incident. Now I'm gratefully in sweats and fuzzy socks. And as mortified as I am, at least my hair's back to normal. And it's softer than usual. I don't know what he did, but if the whole 'Dark One' thing doesn't work out for him, he's got a career in hair.

Okay, that's not funny.

I'm making a joke in an effort to feel less humiliated.

It's only partially working.

Maybe it's just not in the cards for me to become a knock-out beauty. But it doesn't matter, because I've already thought of Plan B.

Tomorrow I'm going to see the fairies.


End file.
